After the Battle
by Aqua4444
Summary: The aftermath of the battle was not a joyous story. Many were dead, more were hurt and the alliance between Dwarves, Men and Elves was rocky and could be broken by the merest little thing. Goblins were still running around, a King was dying and a burglar was missing. This is the story of the three days after the battle, told by those who survived and those who would not.(slight AU)
1. Day 1 - Thorin

**Hello! **

**I had not originally planned to publish another story right now, but with the second trailer of _The Battle of the Five Armies _being released (it's incredible!) and the extended edition of _Desolation of Smaug _arriving in my mailbox yesterday, I just couldn't resist to get this story up sooner than planned! **

**This will be a slight AU of what happens the days after the Battle of the Five Armies. Any mentions of the Quest will be like the events of the book, while the characters are more like those in the movies or only there in the movies. It will cover the perspective of _five_ different persons; Thorin, Thranduil, Bard, Gandalf and Tauriel, though not necessarily in that order. There will be SOME SPOILERS if you have not read the book (or googled the original story's events), but still a bit AUish, so read at your own risk. **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Day 1 – Thorin <strong>

Thorin felt as if he was on fire.

The pain was unimaginable, like fire burning its way through his veins, making his blood boil. His throat was dry and tasted of blood and iron. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him and made him utter a weak, raspy sound like that of a rock being dragged across an uneven surface. Moving hurt and he did not have the strength to open his eyes. It was as if stones had been put before his eyes and prevented him from seeing. He was not in command over his own body and that scared him.

The Dwarf King was surrounded by darkness without any signs of light, though he could feel heat and fire upon his body. He thought he could hear voices – though every sound was slurred and appeared to be coming from far away – but he did not register anyone that sounded familiar. They could have been shouting, whispering or conversing in ordinary tones and he would not have noticed the difference.

His breathing came heavy and with a pain to his chest, though the burning eased and he felt almost numb. It was like floating and sinking, falling and not knowing if you would ever stop. Pain seared through him as he let out a ragged breath that shook him and left him shivering.

He could barely remember what had happened, why he had come to be in this state. He thought he could recall a battle and gold, a lust for gold that had not completely died out, that was lying and brewing in the back of his mind.

Thorin coughed and his eyelids fluttered, making him see a blurry picture of colors that blended together. He tried to focus, to keep his eyes open. Stubborn he had always been and though it hurt, he forced his eyes open and blinked a couple of times.

Everything became clearer and his whole body ached.

"Thorin!"

Óin was at his side immediately, starting to prod at him with experienced fingers, gently, but firmly. The healer's eyes were bloodshot and he looked as terrible as Thorin felt.

"What….?" he tried to speak, but it came out weak and he felt humiliated at his lack of power.

"Water!" yelled Óin and turned around to glare at something. "Water for the King!"

Thorin flinched at the loud shout. He noticed other Dwarves moving in the corner of his eye and before he knew it, Óin was pouring water down his throat and he greedily drank, not knowing how thirsty he had been until now.

When the jug was empty, Thorin felt colder as if the fire that had previously burned inside him had distinguished. Instead, every vein in his body seemed to throb.

Óin had shouted for some of his colleagues to spread the word that the King had awoken, that the line of Durin was not yet broken. The flaps of the tent made a swishing sound as they were thrown open and a cold gust of wind filled the tent as a couple of dwarves rushed out into the autumn to tell the news. Soon, Thorin was only able to see that Óin was left. He tried to sit up, for his sheets were clammy and felt disgusting, and his thick hair was plastered to his neck, face and pillow in a way that made him warm and feel unclean. Óin was there in an instant, placing a hand on his shoulder – the one that wasn't bandaged – and kept him down.

"I wouldn't do that", said the healer warningly, shaking his head and looked down at Thorin from behind his long nose. "You need to lie down. Your injuries are grave."

"What happened?" Thorin asked and his voice sounded rough. A feverish spark appeared in his blue eyes. "The battle, what of it? Did we win?"

"Aye", nodded Óin, but he did not look overjoyed. "We did, though not without losses."

That sounded ominous to Thorin's ears. He fixed the healer with an intense stare, desperation making cracks in a façade that usually was calm and unreadable. Óin didn't look at him, but mixed some herbs together in a bowl and inspected Thorin's bandages. To Thorin, it appeared as if Óin avoided his gaze on purpose.

"What of Fíli and Kíli?" he asked urgently. "And our Company?"

"The members of our Company lives", Óin admitted. "A bit wounded and not without pain, but they live."

Thorin let out a sigh of relief and noticed for the first time that Óin had a bandaged wrapped around his left leg. When he commented on it, the old healer waved the question away as if it was nothing.

"I live", he said gruffly. "Can't let a petty wound like this stop me now. The healers are needed too much for letting me lie down. I've had worse injuries than this, but I don't know if I have seen worse injuries than I have now…." He trailed off and then fixed Thorin with a tired stare and Thorin could see that he chose his next words carefully. "Fíli and Kíli…. They fought valiantly, Thorin, but they gained very serious injuries."

Thorin felt as if a cold hand squeezed his heart in an iron-grip. Óin continued and while his words were harsh and caused Thorin more pain then his wounds, the other dwarf's eyes were soft and compassionate:

"Both of them live for now, but it is difficult to say if they will survive. Fíli took a blow to his head and has not yet woken up. We can treat his other wounds as much as we like, but if he does not wake up soon, he will die. We cannot keep an unconscious man alive for long, not when it's uncertain how he responds to his treatment. Kíli woke up before, but he is in pain. I personally diagnosed him to take a sleeping draught. His right arm is a mess, scarred and broken. Many of his wounds have affected his inner organs, but we are doing all we can."

"They protected me", whispered Thorin, more to himself than to Óin.

Memories came flooding back, a bit vague and disoriented, but Thorin knew he remembered it correctly. Fíli and Kíli had rushed to help him as he fought off goblin after goblin. It was noble of them and Thorin had not expected any less of them, but he could remember that even through his fury, his mad desire for gold and the Arkenstone, he had felt a shiver of fear running through him as he had watched his nephews cut their way through the Goblins' ranks to get to him.

Thinking about the battle, another thought entered his mind, unconsciously. It was poisonous.

"The Arkenstone", Thorin begun slowly. "Who has it now?"

Óin gave him a sharp look, eyes flashing, and though Thorin was wounded and not thinking all too clearly, he was certain that the healer looked disappointed. The King didn't hang his head in shame, but steadily met Óin's gaze, blinking and fighting to keep his eyes open as his eyelids suddenly felt heavy again.

"Bard the Dragonslayer still had it the last I heard of it", answered Óin in a clipped tone and crushed a couple of acorns in a bowl with a bit of too much force than necessary. The sound was horrible.

Thorin nodded and did not exactly know what to feel about that information. The gold was no longer on his mind, the longing for it having vanished, but there was still a tiny part of his mind that would not completely let go of the bright, shimmering jewel, the Arkenstone. However, that part was put to the side with thoughts of his nephews, friends and subjects. Thorin drew a rattling breath and felt pain stretch across his chest, a chest that was bandaged. He closed his eyes briefly, but snapped them open as the images of Fíli and Kíli lying lifeless and pale, of the battle with its horrors and of the wrongness of his behavior before became too much to bare. But the thoughts of his young nephews had gotten him to remember something else, someone small and seemingly defenseless.

"What of the burglar?"

Óin put down the bowl with the brownish sludge he had been experimenting with and shrugged, looking very grim.

"No one knows. He has not been seen since the battle, but we are not done with counting our dead."

When the grey-haired Dwarf was finished speaking, the flaps of the tent was once more pushed aside and two Dwarves Thorin did not know came inside. Both of them bowed as they saw that he was awake and Thorin managed to nod back, though after that he paid them little attention as they started to talk to Óin about different medicines and different wounds that they had come across. He couldn't prevent a small pang of remorse as he recalled what he did and said to the Hobbit. He had been prepared to throw the hobbit down the mountain, insulting him as he did so. Their burglar's eyes had been wide and frightened; a different fear than the one that had been there when they faced dangers during their journey. Fear and determination had reflected in those doe-like eyes and Thorin frowned, wondering what curse had been placed upon the line of Durin for it all to have fallen apart for them.

"Your Majesty? Thorin?"

Thorin blinked and focused on Óin's face that had started to become a bit blurred again. The other two Dwarves flanked him on both sides and they were looking grim and worriedly at him. Thorin blinked again.

"Yes?"

"King Daín wishes to speak with you, as does Balin", explained Óin and eyed the King critically. "Do you think that you have the strength to give them an audience? I would much prefer if you would rest, but they claimed that it's important that they speak with you."

Feeling as if the world weighed him down, Thorin nodded. He felt tired and hurt, pain running through his veins. He thought of asking Óin for something that could ease the pain, but instead, the words that came out of his mouth were words of a strength he felt he did not possess at the moment:

"Aye, send them in."

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><p><strong>So, that was the first chapter! Any thoughts? Constructive criticism's welcomed if needed!<strong>

**Next chapter should be up in a couple of days/next week.**

**Thanks for reading! :)  
><strong>


	2. Day 1 - Bard

**Chapter 2, everyone! **

**Thanks to all readers, followers, favourites and reviews! I really appreciate it :) **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Day 1 – Bard <strong>

Bard was tired.

His face had gotten new lines, deeper furrows that made him look and feel older, in his face. He was worn-out and he didn't think that he had gotten a good night's sleep since the Company of Dwarves had first arrived in Laketown, enchanting people with their tales of adventure and promises of riches beyond any Man's wildest imagination.

'A lot of good that did', he could not help but think bitterly as he stood outside his tent, watching the camp, the remains of the battlefield and in the far distance – being nothing more than a streak of red and smoke upon the lake – his home, Laketown. Everything was a sad sight to Bard's eyes. The tents in different shades of green, red and yellow looked like scattered leaves before Bard's eyes and the cold; mountain wind carried a rotten smell to it, a smell of corpses. He saw Men, Dwarves and Elves move around and between the tents, speaking and shouting. The air rang of three different languages.

His people had lost the most. Their town was destroyed and many dead or wounded. Bard appreciated the Elvenking's help and the assistance of the Dwarves from the Iron Hills, but he could not help but feel out of place during their meetings. They were noble folk, kings and lords, whereas he was nothing more than a mere Man being named King from a people that had nothing. Slaying a dragon had given him a title, but had not the Dwarves awoken the dragon, he would never have needed to do so and their town would not have been destroyed. Still, the alliance that had formed would do well for his people if the different parts could come to some sort of agreement now that the battle was over and their mutual enemy disposed.

Bard sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand, his left, since his right was still sore after the blow he received during the battle.

"Da", he heard Sigrid's voice behind him say. "Your coat's done."

He turned around and graced his eldest daughter with a soft smile. She stood in the tent opening with his coat slung over one of her arms. The clothing was old and well-used, patched together one time too many. Yet Bard felt a little more at ease when he took the coat from his daughter and put it on. It gave him a protection against the cold wind that blew harsh and more fierce up here in the mountain than it had done when they had been living on the Long Lake.

"As good as new", he told his daughter and kissed her forehead. "Thank you."

Sigrid gave him a smile and he noticed for the first time that there were dark bags under her eyes and worry gnawed on his heart. What a good King he would be if he could barely look after his own family. Sigrid seemed to read his mind – she had always been the one of his children who picked up what he was feeling, no matter how hard he tried to hide it – and she put a comforting hand on his right arm, carefully so she would not hurt him.

"It will get better, Da", she said and her pretty face expressed a seriousness that made her look older. "We will manage. We always have."

Bard pushed back the pained expression that threatened to break loose. There was a difference between providing for a family of four in a town with a corrupt Master with too high taxes and to provide for a group of around hundred people and make sure that they have what they need seemed impossible to Bard at the moment. He had always been pessimistic, sometimes even being described as dour, but a hard life had made him like that and it was not going to change now when the situation of his people – _his people _– was dire.

"Where are your brother and sister?" he asked Sigrid, trying not to let his troubled thoughts show.

"Tilda is helping the women cleaning bandages and cooking what is left of the food. I was planning on joining her." Sigrid sighed and pushed back some strands of hair that had escaped her messy bun. "Bain went with one of the groups that were collecting the still wounded and the dead from the battlefield." She paused and continued in a small, frail voice: "They needed all the help that they could get."

Her words left a ringing silence, a silence only disturbed by the activities down at the main camp. There was no time for rest for any of them. War really was a terrible business, drained people and the world of life and of good, left a trail of red in its wake and of sorrow. Bard hoped that he would never live to participate in one again and he wished the same for his people. They did not need more pain and hardship.

"I'll walk with you", said Bard and put a hand on Sigrid's shoulder as he passed her, hoping to convey a feeling of assurance, of safety and of hope in one single gesture. "I have to meet with the people. Give me just a moment to fetch my things."

Sigrid nodded and wrapped her arms around her middle as the wind picked up speed. There had been snow in the air for a couple of days now and the fires had kept burning through along the camp, though sometimes dying as the cold winds were unmerciful. Bard added that to the heap of trouble that would make life hard for his people. They could not live in tents when the winter came, would not survive in their already weakened state. Bard told himself to voice his concerns at the next meeting, praying that the gold the Dwarves had promised in exchange for the Arkenstone would start being transported from the mountain so that the Men of Laketown could rebuild their town so that they would have somewhere to live when winter truly came.

It was chilly inside the tent, a tent housing four people. It was not much, but Bard would take it before sleeping outside. He had been unyielding in that question, that his people should have shelter over their heads though their supplies were scarce. The Elvenking and the King of the Iron Hills had understood their need and gracefully given them tents and food in exchange for help with the wounded and for fighting a war. Bard supposed they thought his race weak, though they never said so to his face. The Elvenking was polite and charming enough, while the Dwarf King of the Iron Hills – who acted as the leader of the Dwarves since no one yet knew what would become of Thorin Oakenshield, the King under the Mountain – was a pleasant, but rough fellow. Bard felt that he could offer very little during their gatherings, but he knew these lands and he knew of how to live in poverty. He also now knew how to kill a dragon and that had gained him respect amongst Men, Dwarves and even Elves.

Bard did not bring his bow and arrows with him, but opted for a simple knife which he fastened to his belt. With his arm, his use of the bow was limited. Lastly, he bent down and stuck a hand under his mattress. He felt the soft material of the pouch and pulled. He straightened up, grimacing ever so slightly at how stiff and sore he felt.

The Arkenstone shone even though there was no strong light in the tent. The white surface of the gem was smooth and it looked as if thousands of suns were captured in it, thousands of snowflakes or pieces of glass with tints of rainbow. Bard had never seen such a beautiful thing, but while he could appreciate its cold beauty, he did not deem it worthy to go to war for. He had been prepared to fight for gold, but unlike the Dwarves, he thought of his people and how they had been promised that gold, needed it. The Dwarves' greed was another matter.

Bard put back the jewel in the pouch and tucked it away in one of his pockets. There was still a bit of a disagreement of what to do with the beautiful stone, the Dwarves' heirloom and Bard was rather safe than sorry and kept the stone close.

As he and Sigrid made their way down the small hill, Bard's thoughts drifted away to the Hobbit, the tiny little man that had helped create an alliance, no matter how frail and bitter it was. He wondered if he had survived.

Father and daughter separated in camp. Sigrid gave her father a quick hug before hurrying away to assist the women in their duties. Bard made his way between the tents, inspecting and inquiring if there was something he could do to help. The Men greeted him with nods and friendly shouts. Even if he had been chosen to be King, there was still difficult to forget that they had grown up together, living in the same town under the same conditions. It made it a bit hard to adapt to new titles over just a couple of nights. To the Dwarves and Elves, it seemed not to matter who he was. They were courteous to him, but it was also very clear that they did not answer to him.

Bard spent the following hour helping fixing wagons; look over the dead and offer condolences, talking to the wounded and clean armor that later was taken to the many smiths spread around camp. It gave a feeling of comradeship and Bard felt almost content as he sat with men he had known since childhood and sorted out armors, talking, but not laughing. There was still no mood for laughing, the remains of the war still hanging above them, signs around them that they could not ignore.

"King Bard?"

Startled, and a bit unused to his title, Bard looked up. An Elf stood before him, dressed in a golden armor and his fair face was serious, his eyes sad and his voice carrying a melancholic tune to it. Bard wiped his hands on his coat and tried to stand as tall as the Elf.

"Aye?"

"King Thranduil requires your presence immediately. A new council is to be held."

Bard resisted to quirk his lips in bitterness. The camp may hold one King too many, but there was no illusion of who was in charge. Bard nodded to the Elven warrior and said goodbye to the men he had been working with. They nodded back, paying little attention to the Elf. A couple of days ago, the sight of an Elf would've made the Men speechless, but now it was an all too common sight.

"Lead the way", said Bard and the Elf inclined his head towards him ever so slightly.

Secretly, he thought:

'Why me?'

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><p><strong>So, that was Bard! <strong>

**Next chapter should be up in a couple of days. **

**Thanks for reading! **


	3. Day 1 - Thranduil

**Chapter 3, everyone! **

**Thanks to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Day 1 – Thranduil <strong>

Thranduil poured up another goblet of wine.

The meeting had just finished and he felt drained of strength in both body and mind. He took a deep gulp of wine, enjoying the sweet taste and the burning sensation as he swallowed. He then put down the goblet and proceeded with looking over the maps and scrolls of supplies that was spread across the table in a mess that was not quite like him. The Elvenking sighed softly as his crystal blue eyes flickered across the elegant, black letters in front of him.

The people of the Woodland Realm were a rich people, despite their barren lands and lack of craftwork. Their riches were from times of old, greatly taken care of and shared amongst the people. Their survival came from doing business with the Men from Laketown and even with the Dwarves from the Iron Hills. It now seemed fair to pay something back, to help them, especially the people of Laketown.

Thranduil gave the papers a tired look and sat down, his armor clattering faintly as he did so. It had been cleaned so the silver practically glowed, but he thought he could still smell the scent of blood on it. Goblin blood was not a pleasant scent. Reaching for his goblet – its context looking far too much like blood – Thranduil thought of what to do next.

The meeting had not been to any use. Daín from the Iron Hills was on edge since there had been news that Thorin Oakenshield had awakened and he had been a bit distracted with thoughts of his fatally wounded kin. Bard, grim-looking Bard, had spoken of how his people managed, of the upcoming winter and about that unknown number of dead. Daín had also not managed to get a fairly right number of losses and he commented on the gold, which he said he had no right to interfere with when his cousin and his heirs were still alive. It complicated things and Thranduil could not say that the meeting had improved the situation around camp. The Wizard – who usually attended the meetings – had not been spotted today and no matter how tired or annoyed Thranduil could feel about him, he missed his advice. The old Wizard was the only one who was truly neutral in this.

"My Lord?"

Thranduil opened his eyes, though he could not recall closing them, and turned to face his son. Legolas had his coloring and looked fairly like him, but he had a different sort of fire inside him whereas Thranduil was more like ice; cold and on the verge of being unbreakable. Legolas face was blank, but his eyes tired, troubled and pained. Thranduil nodded to one of the goblets at the table and at the bottle of wine.

"Drink, if you like. You appear to need it."

Legolas shook his head, not to Thranduil's surprise. He was alone in his appreciation of fine liquids that helped him see everything clearer, helped him calm down. He gestured to the other chair with a nod of his head.

"Please sit at least. You look tired."

He allowed some fatherly concern slip into his voice and watched Legolas like a hawk as he sat down in the chair opposite him. The Prince's shoulders slouched and he let his mask of calm confidence slip away for a while. Thranduil kept still and let him talk, blue eyes never leaving his son's face.

"I am tired", admitted Legolas with a sigh. "My mind is exhausted. So much violence and evil, destruction to the fullest…."

He trailed off and Thranduil did not fill the silence immediately. Legolas was not a child anymore, but he was still young enough not to have seen many real battles, battles that left the air thick with grief and air rotten with death and soul bloodied beyond help. The King rubbed his eyes as if hoping to erase the memories of the battle and the battles before it. It was a silly thought and after being alive for a long time, a far too long time, he should know better. Yet there was always a part of him that wished to be rid of all the bad memories that hurt and reminded him of that life was not without sacrifices.

"I have spoken to the council", said Thranduil out of the blue. "And with the leaders of the Dwarves and Men, even with the King of Eagles. They all speak differently, advise me and beg me of things they need. Everyone needs food, the Men of Esgaroth need supplies and material to rebuild their home and the Dwarves are in need of our healers. Mithrandir told me to send out a patrol, because he believes that there are still Goblins out there. I have advisors who think we shall head back home, to protect our own lands, who think that we have done enough for now. Then I have people who opposes it, who are determined that we should stay and help with what we can, that we should stand united."

He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and tried to again regain a calm expression as annoyance flared up inside and made his heart beat faster. He took another gulp of wine and fixed Legolas with an intense gaze.

"What is your advice in this, my son?"

A flash of surprise flickered in Legolas's eyes at the question, but the rest of his face remained impassive. He looked his father straight in the eye when he answered, something Thranduil appreciated.

"I say we stay and do our duty as allies. The grief and wounds are still fresh and I do not believe you to be that cruel, father, to leave innocent to fend for themselves when they barely survive as it is. An act of kindness now will likely be remembered for years to come. It will be a good start to the peace we are trying to rebuild."

He spoke all with a wisdom that exceeded his years and Thranduil felt a surge of pride at Legolas, a pride that made him feel twice as tall and mighty. That he told him.

"You speak wisely, my son and heir, and I shall listen to your advice. I will not leave the people of Esgaroth to die and I will assist the Dwarves, though I have little left for their greed. But you are right that a newly built alliance shall not begin with a cold shoulder being turned when in need."

With a fleeting smile and a look of love, Legolas humbly bowed. When straightening up, it looked as if he had gotten new strength, that some of the weariness had left him. His noble features were determined.

"You are doing the right thing, father", he said solemnly. "Our kingdom will endure, as you always say. Better help those who might not."

Thranduil sipped the last of his wine while nodding, though his frosty, blue eyes held a faraway look in them. He thought of his kingdom and how they eventually would have to deal with the dark power that had settled down in the forest.

There could be heard a soft 'clink' as he put down his goblet and stood up, sparing the maps and scrolls one last look.

"Where are your duties taking you now?" he asked Legolas and adjusted his silver diadem that adorned his head instead of a fancy crown.

"As the Captain of the Guards is unavailable at the moment, I am helping assisting the remaining warriors with their regrouping. Also, I am looking over the food that is coming."

"Good. It is expected of you."

Father and son exited the tent and the King nodded to the guards that stood outside. Neither of them moved from their posts, their expressions never faltering and their armor and spears glittering in the light from the sun upon the white sky. Bleak was the day and Thranduil did not like it. The cold made his bones ache and the bare lands made him long for the woods, no matter how dark and dreary it had become.

"Return to your duties, Legolas. We will speak later. For now, I will sit with the wounded, share my strength and pray."

The King's voice was heavy with a sorrow that was not new. Legolas bowed, his last word was a soft-spoken '_Ada_' before marching down a different path that led to where the Elven warriors had their stead. Thranduil could detect the sound of arrows being fired, hitting their targets, even though the wind was raging. Noises of hammers against steel carried through camp and the moaning of the wounded was even worse than the wind.

Thranduil looked to the sky and saw the Eagles high up there, defying wind and weather. They appeared to free, as if the war somehow was beyond them, could not reach them. The old Elf sighed to himself.

He received bows and nods where he went, everyone recognizing him for who he was. He nodded formally to each and every one of them, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought of the patrol he had sent out to watch for remaining Goblins, of the food he would need to have delivered here as soon as he could, of what materials him and his people could provide the Men with and of promises and contracts that not yet was fulfilled or needed to be drawn. Petty details of an alliance.

As he walked down the camp, through the maze of scattered tent and weary people, with the sound of the winds of the north ringing in his ears and saw the sorrow and poverty, the hardened faces of both Men, Elves and Dwarves, he could only think of how much he despised greed and the Dwarves that had brought this upon them all.

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><p><em>Ada - <em>father

**And that was Thranduil. Any thoughts? **

**Next chapter will be up in a couple of days. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Day 1 - Gandalf

**Chapter 4, everyone! **

**Thanks to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Day 1 – Gandalf <strong>

Gandalf grimaced as the scent of death came over him in thick waves.

The whole camp reeked of death and blood, but the field where the battle had taken place was the worst. Bodies were scattered all around, with arrows sticking out of them and red tendrils of blood coloring the ground like tiny rivers, never-ending.

The old man's eyes carried sadness, but they were alert as they scanned the battlefield, searching for the small Hobbit that had not been seen since the battle had begun. Gandalf did not want to think the worst, but his heart was heavy as he walked around the dead. Behind and around him was a group of Dwarves, led by one of Daín's officers; a bulky Dwarf with a grim face hidden beneath a helmet of skillfully hammered steel called Hór. They had been out since the early hours, determined to do what they could to find who was dead and who was not. Another Dwarf was running around with protocols and scrolls, crossing names of lists and writing names, depending on in which state they found the missing persons. Further away, some Men and Elves were doing the same.

"Tharkûn!" barked one of the Dwarves and Gandalf looked up at the sound of one of his many names.

He hurried over as the Dwarf looked troubled. Gandalf ran over with a speed that was strange for his age, jumping over dead Goblin bodies should it be needed. He clutched his staff tightly.

"What is it?" he asked gruffly and the Dwarf nodded towards the ground, revulsion and pity flashing across his face.

"Could you do anything?" he wondered, almost grudgingly.

Gandalf knelt down next to the Elf lying on the ground. He was still breathing, but it was with difficulty. His golden armor had rent and it was covered in dirt and blood. His hair was tangled, face pale and contorted in pain. Gandalf tried not to grimace as he examined the huge gash that had almost separated his head from his neck. It looked horrid and Gandalf's heart ached in sorrow. He doubted that the Elven warrior could even hear them and he was surprised that the Elf was still breathing. The kindest would be to end his misery, but at the same time he found that it was hard to form the words and take a life.

"I cannot", he said simply and stood up again, looking down at the Dwarf who seemed reluctantly fascinated with the Elf's wound. "Sometimes, it is too late and nature needs to have it cause."

"Never seen one of them dying before", the Dwarf muttered, glancing at the Elf one more time. "Never seen one of them alive before this battle, either."

Gandalf let out a heavy sighed. At the same time, the Elven warrior drew his last breath – a wheezy sound, the sound of something bursting, choking – and his eyes turned glassy, lost. He was dead and he was only one of many. Gandalf closed his eyes, muttering a prayer under his breath. It was not the first prayer he had spoken this day.

"Well, he's dead now", sighed the Dwarf and rubbed his dark eyes with rough hands. He flipped through his notes, a piece of charcoal ready. "What's his name?"

"I don't know", answered Gandalf lowly, skimming over the dead Elf's face and then out over the battlefield, empty save for the dead. "I do not think I've met him before."

"I'll just mark it as another unidentified then", said the Dwarf and made a black line on one of the notes. "The cart should be here soon to pick up him and the others. Then his kind will bury him as they see fit."

He turned and started to walk away, leaving Gandalf behind. The Wizard knelt down again and closed the Elf's eyes. It was the least he could do, what he did to all the bodies they found. Yet he felt the dead's eyes on him as he walked away.

"Alright, we make for camp!" barked Hór and his voice were carried away by the wind. "We will come back later or tomorrow. A few more on the cart and then we'll go!"

The others hurried to obey his orders. They dragged the cart forwards up the slopes. It was laden with bodies, trying to be placed with respect, but in the end just looking miserable. Others of the group helped carry bodies to the cart. Their faces were not much visible behind helmets and their natural hairy appearances, but they would not hold any expression than quiet anger and grief. While the Dwarves worked with the bodies, Gandalf stepped up next to Hór, his bushy eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

"What do you mean with heading back to camp?" he asked. "There is still much to be done."

Silently he thought of Bilbo. The Hobbit, for all his brave heart, must be scared out of his mind or he could be wounded or dead. Gandalf would never forgive himself if that was to happen and he knew that the Company of Thorin Oakenshield would not either. Hór let out a deep breath, almost a groan, and looked up at Gandalf with eyes hard as stone.

"I'm following orders", he said gruffly. "My King and Lord wanted reports on the dead to deliver to the Dragonslayer and the King of Trees. I will not be alone amongst his men to leave our report of today. Soon the sun will disappear and I do not want to be out here in the dark. We are doing what we can, but we have enough to worry about without the dead." Hór peered up at him with his mouth turned into a bitter smile. "You are wise, Tharkûn. You know I speak the truth."

Gandalf didn't answer, just gave the Dwarf a chilly look and stomped off.

"Oh, the ways of Dwarves", he muttered under his breath, not knowing if he was most annoyed at himself or everybody else.

The sun was not yet gone, but lingered above the horizon like a pale moon. Gandalf could see it clearly from where he sat down on a rock at the foot of the Lonely Mountain. People were tiredly leaving the battlefield to return to the camp, dragging some carts behind. He saw Hór and his group amongst them.

Gandalf closed his eyes and massaged his temples with one hand as one of his arms was bandaged after the battle. His staff leaned across the rock; near at hands should it be needed. Even with his eyes close, he could not pretend that he was in another place, because it still smelled of death. Absentmindedly he wondered if it would smell like that in years to come. Some things did not just go away.

He thought long and had of what to do next. He knew Thorin was dying, he knew that Bard – after the heat of the battle – had doubts about his leadership and he knew that Thranduil easily would grow impatient should they not make permanent arrangements soon. Gandalf had met many Kings in his days, great leaders and not so much, and they had all had had the same stubbornness and pride. Their alliance was frail now that the war was over, now that they had defeated their common enemy.

A massive gush of wind attacked his face and would have blown off his hat should he have been wearing it. Gandalf opened his eyes, his free hand reaching for his staff. He was greeted by the sight of Gwaihir, the Lord of Eagles. The large bird had gone unscratched for most of the fight, his feathers shiny and dark. Two round, golden eyes met Gandalf's and the Eagle clicked his beak.

"You look tired, distressed", he said in his shrill voice.

"Aye", mumbled Gandalf. "That I am, but it will pass with time. Some day."

Gwaihir nodded and turned his magnificent head to watch over the battlefield and the corpses.

"Did you tell them that they did not need to bother with our dead? We let nature and others claim them. We are hunters, but when we die, we become someone's prey."

"I did", said Gandalf, bowing his head. The others had been relieved that they did not need to take care of yet more dead, though they had not outright said so. "Once again, I thank you for your assistance. You helped us win a war."

"Perhaps. We do not like Goblins."

"No. At the moment, I don't think anyone does."

Gwaihir clicked his beak again, his perhaps most dangerous weapon. He shook his wings a bit, impatiently, as if he wanted to set for the sky as soon as possible. Gandalf almost envied him.

"I did as you asked, but my kin and I have not spotted any Goblins near. Alas, they wouldn't have moved during the day. I should be wearier when night approaches."

Gandalf nodded at the advice. He had made sure that the Elvenking had sent out a group of lookouts, just to be safe. They had not yet made it back. Gandalf was about to thank the Eagle again, when he thought of something else.

"I wonder", said Gandalf slowly, peering up at the great Eagle with careful eyes. "You did not happen to come across a Hobbit during your search? A small creature, like the child of a Man…."

"I know", interrupted Gwaihir. "I remember him. A small creature, an easy prey. I did not see anyone of that sort and I don't believe I would if I looked properly."

Gandalf understood the meaning even though the Lord of Eagles did not say it out loud. He thought Bilbo was dead and the Wizard started to fear that it might be true. Nevertheless, he would not give up. Vaguely, he recalled having heard Bilbo's voice before the battle broke out, where the Elves had stood in the beginning of the fight. He decided to have a look there before believing that the Hobbit was gone.

Gwaihir spread his wings again, making Gandalf's beard blew into his face. The Eagle nodded towards him and set off to the sky, screeching, but with a few last words:

"Do not look so grim. The battle's won. It is over."

Gandalf couldn't keep back a shudder and he thought of death, of a missing Hobbit and of an evil power lurking in Mirkwood, someone called the Necromancer.

"No", mumbled Gandalf, looking ahead and seeing a dark shadow in the eye of his mind. "I fear something bigger has begun."

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><p><strong>That was Gandalf. Any thoughts? <strong>

**Next chapter should be up in a couple of days. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Day 1 - Tauriel

**Chapter 5, everyone! **

**A bit late perhaps, but hopefully it will be worth the wait. Today, I bought tickets to the Swedish premiere of _Battle of the Five Armies _so I really felt the need to publish this chapter! **

**Thanks to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

_Elvish's in italics. _

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Day 1 – Tauriel <strong>

Tauriel called out to her troop that they should return to the camp.

They had been out searching for hours on the King's orders, but they had not yet stumbled across any Goblins. No signs of them; the landscape looking almost the same and was nearly untraceable. Large rocks and boulders seemed to grow from the ground, gigantic but small compared to the Lonely Mountain. Tauriel did not find the place enjoyable at all. It was quiet, cold and lacked of life, death being a shadow over it. Should any Goblins be nearby, it was no good to remain there when the sun was slowly starting to disappear. Night was no one's friend.

At her suggestion, she received nods in agreement and they made their way down the mountainside in a swift pace, jumping over rocks but never losing speed. They worked excellent together, weapons ready and their eyes alert. Tauriel took the lead. The wind was untamable and it made her hair get into her face, a mess of long red tresses. It was harsh and it had a cruel note to it, a chill that signaled that winter would soon be here.

They arrived at the hillside before the sun had completely vanished. Across the large, ashen lands she could glimpse the tents, their color a strange sight in this grey landscape.

"With me!" said Tauriel and took the first step out onto the former battlefield. "Night's approaching and we have a duty to do!"

The group of seven covered the distance in silence. Death was in the air and the twisted, battered and brutal bodies were a sight that would stun most people into silence. Tauriel forced herself to look, to take it all in so that she would remember it. She owned it to those who had fallen.

As they arrived at the camp, they were greeted by a shout of 'The Elves are back!' from a Dwarf who stood up on a high rock, his beard blowing in his face. Tauriel straightened up and turned to her group.

"You did well", she said and looked every one of them in the eye, her face serious. "You can all report to Rìnthel and she will direct you in what you can do, but Olchon, you'll come with me."

"_Nikerym_", all of them said in clear, ageless voices and went in a different direction.

People scattered out of the way, Men and Dwarves regarding them with frowns and worry etched onto their faces. Only Olchon remained with her, the dark-haired male looking at her with tired eyes.

"To report to the King?" he asked.

"To report to the King", Tauriel repeated, nodding.

Both walked with grace in their movements despite being exhausted from the last days' events. Their bodies might've managed more than the Dwarves and Men, but their minds and souls were easily more sensitive to the destruction around them, the destruction of life.

King Thranduil was not at his tent and that meant that they had to search through the camp even more. They found him surrounded by Men, him standing taller than everyone else, dressed in his silver armor and head held high. He was talking to a tired, ragged-looking dark-haired Man. Tauriel recognized him to be Bard, the man who had slayed the dragon. She marched up to them with determined steps, Olchon at her heels. The other Elf moved quietly like a shadow.

"_Heru en amin_", Tauriel greeted the King and bowed, not looking up until he had given her the permission to do so. "We have scouted the area as requested."

"And what did you find?" wondered the King, raising his thick, dark brows.

The Men around them also looked eager to hear. Their faces showed worry and their bearing was a grim one, all of them. Bard scratched his chin and Tauriel was not surprised to find that his eyes were just as tired and desperate for knowledge, a solution. Like all of his kind, they showed emotions too easily, always so raw and pained. It would take time for the Man to grow into his role as King, but Tauriel had an inkling that he would do it well.

"There were no signs of Goblins", she admitted and pretended that she did not hear the Men's sighs of relief. "But the environment is new to us. I believe that we should reach a better result if we were assisted by some Dwarves, someone who knows this area."

The Men muttered in between them all, but Bard and the Elvenking remained silent. Tauriel waited for any of them to speak. It did not improve her feelings, for their silence was long and dark, thoughtful and calculating. A slight pang of weariness weaved its way into her heart, wondering what lied beyond their eyes and what was on their minds.

"Someone must tell Lord Daín", sighed Bard eventually, rubbing his eyes. "I suppose that task falls to me. With your leave, Your Majesty."

The Man gave a slight bow of his head towards the Elvenking, who nodded back, his eyes frosty. Bard regarded Tauriel and her lieutenant with dark eyes before leaving, his long coat swirling around as he did so. The Men who had been with him looked lost for a moment before the King spoke:

"If you would excuse me, I need to speak with my Guards. I assure you that I will see to your needs of food and supplies as much as I can."

Tauriel tried not to let her surprise show. She had lived under the roof of King Thranduil long enough to have seen the King in all his glory and temperament. He was not cruel, but he was reserved towards strangers and those who did not belong to his kingdom. This kindness was not a new ability, but it was rarely showed so openly. It filled her heart with the delight to see the King break through his usual cold demeanor and grace the survivors with what they could offer, something that would help the people of Esgaroth immensely and also the Dwarven army. War really created the strangest of allies.

The Men mumbled as they gave the Elvenking swift bows before leaving the three Elves to be. The people of Esgaroth were descendants of noble folk, but even they could not help but feel intimidated by the regal Elvenking. Tauriel recalled how she had felt the same when she was first brought before the King many, many years ago.

When they were left to their own, the King asked them for a more detailed report and Tauriel and Olchon obeyed, retelling their patrol as much as they could. When they were done, the King's lips were set in a thin line.

"Very well. You have given me something to think of. I thank you for your assistance. Olchon, you are dismissed. I believe that you are needed elsewhere."

The dark-haired guard nodded, his face emotionless.

"Yes, My Lord."

Tauriel watched him go and she a part of her wished that she could follow him or that Legolas could have been there. His presence was easier to deal with than the King's.

"Walk with me, Captain", the King begged her, his cold eyes fixed ahead.

"My Lord?"

"Please. I insist."

She could have thought of a lot of other things she could've been doing instead; assisting the healers, survey the food that was being shared through the whole camp or patrol the borders as night was closing in. But he was her King and she respected him too much for disobeying him at the moment, especially since it was such a small request.

The two Elves walked side by side. Tauriel noticed how everyone bowed or greeted them as they walked by, no matter which race, though the Dwarves' faces did not show the respect their gestures might've meant to. The Elvenking was regally acknowledging the others, but did not speak. Tauriel wondered why he wanted her with him.

"Tell me", said the King suddenly and his voice had dropped an octave. "What do you see?"

Tauriel blinked, a question ready to spring from her lips, but she held her tongue. Something in the King's posture, the way he held himself and the raw flash of an emotion she found hard to place in his eyes, made the red-haired Elf look around, truly looking.

It was horrible.

The people from Esgaroth had sunken faces, weathered and hollow eyes. They were a people of poverty. Their children were quiet, afraid, having seen much destruction already. The elders looked tired and grim, an air of hardened wisdom around them. She saw Dwarves as well and their armors were battered and their long beards in disarray, covering most of their faces. They muttered in their language – rough words in rumbling voices with a dark tone to them all – and their voices conveyed little emotion, but their eyes were tired. Though Dwarves were said to be made of stone, Tauriel had seen that even the toughest and hardest of stones could break. There were also Eagles circling the sky, shrieking. They appeared like dark spots on a slowly darkening sky and it was something sad and wild about them that made her veins feel as if they were filled with ice.

She let out a pained breath at the world and those around her. When she realized that the King was still waiting for an answer, she replied in a voice thick with emotion:

"I see the world for what it is. I see sorrow and grief. I see pain and fear. I see the result of greed and hate." She paused and felt the King's icy eyes on her. She held her head so that her eyes met his. "I see reasons for why we should stay and help."

The King looked at her with an unreadable expression. They had stopped their walk now, but there was still people walking past them, running in a hurry to get somewhere else. Tauriel waited, pulling herself up to her fullest height. The Elvenking blinked and there was a gleam of appreciation in his eyes.

"Well spoken, Captain", he praised her and inclined his silver-blond head towards her as a gesture of approval.

He looked out over the camp as well and Tauriel stood still and waited for what he would say next. She wondered what it was he saw when he looked at the people around them. Without warning, the King started to walk again and she hurried after him, her limbs and spirit pressed to their limit.

"I hope that you and your Guard can manage to keep watch during the night. I do not want to take any chances. You will send out another patrol in the morn to look after Goblins and I will make sure that a Dwarf will be with them." He let out a soft sigh and Tauriel thought he looked next to apologetic as he continued: "There is no time for rest. We are not done here."

Tauriel bowed her head in silent agreement. She was determined to go on when others could not. She raised her green eyes and there was steel in them.

They were not done there, indeed.

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><p><em>Nikerym - <em>Captain

_Heru en amin - _My Lord (non familiar)

**So, that was that! Any thoughts? We'll be entering day two in the next chapter... **

**Next chapter should be up next week. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Day 2 - Thranduil

**Chapter 6, everyone! **

**We're now entering the second part of the story, the second day (and it's less than two days until I'll finally get to watch _Battle of the Five Armies)_ and I'll hope you'll like it :)  
><strong>

**As usual; 'thank you' to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! I really appreciate that you take time to read this story of mine. **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: Day 2 – Thranduil <strong>

Thranduil was up before the first light of the sun had appeared in the horizon.

He had not been able to rest. The wind had howled strongly through the whole night, a sound most horrid to his sensitive ears. Closing his eyes had graced him with images of memories he rather forget, so little peace came to him that night.

The camp was still in the early hour, something Thranduil found to be a relief. A raven cawed somewhere up the mountainside and there were small signs that everyone were wakening up, or – in the healers' cases – replace one another. He admired the healers' spirit and if he had been more versed in the skills of healing and not drained of strength, he would have assisted them, though his Court Healer had told him that he would probably do more harm than good with his cold touch.

Thranduil let out a sigh, walking away from his tent as the sun slowly appeared in the horizon, a ball of gold. He moved through the camp as silent as a shadow. His armor had been removed the evening before and he felt more at ease without it and being back into his usual robes. Yet it also felt strange.

A couple of Dwarves stumbled across his path, hair and beard in disarray and yawning so loudly that Thranduil thought they would wake up the whole camp. They paid the Elvenking little attention as they walked by and Thranduil felt a small pang of annoyance. Without his crown and armor made by the best smiths in Middle Earth, he was just another Elf to all the Dwarves.

They were expecting a delivery of food and fabric from his Realm this morning. Ravens had been diligently flying back and forth between Erebor, Mirkwood and even the Iron Hills, just so that everything should be arranged and taken care of as quickly as possible. The first days of winter were the easiest ones, but then it only got worse.

Thranduil stopped at the end of the camp and looked out over the lake. It was a clear surface of silver, with the ruins of Esgaroth a black blur in the distance. He could see something moving further away and even though the distance was great, he recognized his people and their detailed carved carts. The wind even carried the scent of food with it.

The Elves marched with a quick pace and he did not have to wait long before they arrived. He went to greet them. Two horses were dragging two different carts; one with food and one with fabrics and tools. Ten Elves had accompanied them. Thranduil appreciatively stroke the horses' muzzles, muttering sweet words to them. They blinked at him with intelligent eyes. Then he proceeded with greeting his butler.

"Galion. Good of you to come with such quick notice. I hope everything went well?"

"Yes, My Lord", said Galion and he seemed to be completely sober for once. "All is in order. We marched the whole night, but nothing bothered us."

"Good." He addressed all of them: "You have done well. If five of you could lead the cart with supplies to the west part of camp and report to a Man called Percy, it would be most helpful. The sooner the Men get to rebuild their home, the sooner we can return to ours." He paused, waited for agreement, Before adding: "Oh, and it would be the wisest to inform the Dwarves of your arrival as well or else they might get…. annoyed."

Five Elves – dressed in green and dark brown with bows strapped to their backs – nodded and bowed. One of them patted the horse dragging the cart and it neighed, but moved with an elegance that would have been unusual for a horse belonging to a mortal, but was not surprising for one belonging to Elven kind. Thranduil watched them go across the desolated land.

"Galion and the rest, you're with me", he demanded, turning on his heels and expected the others to follow. "There are many who are hungry and this will come as a blessing."

"What are we getting in return?" asked Galion when he came to walk almost beside the King. Behind them, the other Elves silently performed their task and soon the horse was trotting along with them. "My Lord?"

Thranduil regarded his butler with eyes as frosty as the upcoming winter. He swept his eyes over the camp and its miserable state.

"We get an alliance and perhaps a jewel or two from the treasure hoard."

"Is that all?"

Thranduil glanced at his butler out of the corner of his eyes. A thoughtful frown came to be on his lips.

"For now."

The camp had risen with the sun and the air rang of the sound of hammers against steel and roosters' crowing. People prepared for another day of hardship, not knowing what to expect.

Thranduil and his entourage were exposed to hungry gazes from the race of Men, eyes shining with gratitude and their faces thin. The Dwarves were not as open with their emotions, but not even they could hide their love for food in their eyes. Thranduil resisted curling his lips into a snide smile. His fondness of Dwarves had been killed long ago.

Outside the tent keeping the boxes of food undisturbed was two Dwarves. One was fat with a massive ginger beard and the other thin, with black whiskers and an odd-looking hat. Both were wearing armor over threadbare clothes and they did not falter from their posts.

As the Elves approached the Dwarves stood up from the logs they were occupying. Thranduil raised an eyebrow at them. He had not expected the guards to be like this and he thought he should order some of his own to stand guard, watching out for hungry thieves in the night. He would not be surprised if the fat Dwarf ate the supplies by himself. Beside him, Galion scoffed and the horse and the cart stopped. For a moment, Elves and Dwarves silently watched each other.

"You are on guard duty?" asked Thranduil and broke the silence between them.

"I am", confirmed the Dwarf with the hat. "My brother's in charge."

"Really?" drawled Thranduil and kept his skepticism to himself. "I was not aware of that such a decision had been made, Master Dwarf."

"It has", said the other Dwarf in a soft voice that was almost as clumsy as he. "Lord Daín gave the order, but King Thorin the demand."

King Thorin. Then this must be Erebor Dwarves, because Thranduil was aware of that only Dwarves of the long-lost kingdom called the King under the Mountain by his true title. The Elvenking tapped a slender finger on his chin.

"I see."

"You don't remember us?" asked the Dwarf with the outrageous hat with a smile on his face and a cold gleam in his eyes. "You threw us in the dungeons."

Thranduil schooled his face into the mask of the true King of the Woodland Realm, a face that betrayed nothing and could have been carved out of marble. He looked down at the two Dwarves.

"I recall that you trespassed into my kingdom, refused to tell me why you were there and interrupting our party."

"And you denied us food, but look at us now." The Dwarf shook his head in an almost amazed way. "Fate works in odd ways."

"Perhaps." Thranduil inclined his head as if to say he agreed. He gestured towards the cart. "Food, as promised. You can tell your leader that."

The Dwarf smiled good-naturally and swept of his hat in a mock bow.

"Of course." He turned to the larger Dwarf. "You'll keep the fort standing, Bombur and I will be back soon. Just going to drop by Balin and deliver the news."

The ginger-haired Dwarf – Bombur apparently – nodded and regarded the Elves with careful eyes, almost as if he expected them to run off with the food. Thranduil was feeling a bit affronted. He nodded towards the Dwarves with icy politeness and ordered two of his men to stay with the Dwarf Bombur. He chewed on his lower lip as the two tall and slender Elves came to stand next to him, though keeping their distance. The hatted Dwarf grimaced but offered his brother an encouraging smile and Thranduil a salute before setting off down the path.

"Now, My Lord?" wondered Galion. "What are your orders?"

"Help unpacking the food. Then I suggest…."

Thranduil was interrupted by the arrival of a Dwarf. He panted and sported a nasty bruise on his face and his right hand was bandaged. His dark eyes were wide. Bombur was the first one of them to react.

"Ori!" he exclaimed and looked worriedly over the other Dwarf. "What's happened? What's wrong? Is it Thorin?"

Ori shook his head frantically and looked to Thranduil. The old Elf felt something aching to dread bloom in his chest. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

"Yes?" he said impatiently. "Speak!"

"My Lord, there's been a Goblin attack."

Murmurs broke out amongst the Elven warriors and they drew their swords. Thranduil stood still. Of course Mithrandir should be right. He was a Wizard after all. Thranduil drew himself up to his fullest height and spoke in a voice like lightening flashing across the sky:

"When and where? What precautions have been made?"

"Lord – I mean King – Daín sent out some of his men to help your warriors to track them down. I believe your son is in charge of the scouting." While the Dwarf looked as if he was on the verge of breaking down, his voice was calm.

Thranduil turned to Galion and at that moment he emitted such power that his butler took a step back.

"Prepare my armor", said the King coldly. "The war is not yet done."

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><p><strong>So, that was Thranduil again. Any thoughts? <strong>

**I cannot promise when the next chapter will be up, but it should be sometime in the end of this week or in the beginning of the next. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Day 2 - Thorin

**Chapter 7, everyone! **

**I have finally seen the movie and _Battle of the Five Armies _surely was a fitting title. I still can't really grasp that it's over, but with the extended edition being released sometime next year, it's not really over yet after all. Yay! **

**Thanks to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! :) **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: Day 2 – Thorin <strong>

"Thorin, are you listening to me?"

Thorin nodded, snapping his eyes wide open again. He felt numb and tired, his body still aching. He wet his lips and sent his cousin a half-apologetic look. Daín smiled crookedly.

"Am I that boring?" he said jokingly and Thorin let out a sigh.

"No... do continue."

"Very well." The other Dwarf turned businesslike again. "The Elves arrived this morning with food, fabrics and tools, which are given to the Men to work with. King Bard is still persistent with that his people need their promised gold. He will not part from the Arkenstone until then."

The Arkenstone. His legacy. Thorin let out a pained sigh and clutched his chest as the motion caused him pain. They would make an arrangement when he was more stable; he did not focus now as much as he would've liked to. He let out a strangled sound as he cleared his throat. Daín was patiently waiting.

"What about the Goblin attack?"

Daín looked grim.

"Took us by surprise", he reluctantly admitted and his eyes reflected anger and shame. "We had not expected them to strike when morning arrived. Lost a couple of my men and three of the Lake-Men. Slayed some Goblins as well, but the rest disappeared, though it can't be many of them left now."

Thorin closed his eyes forcefully.

"Gandalf warned us", he murmured tiredly.

"He did, but the Elven scouts yesterday failed to locate the Goblins. By Mahal, the Eagles missed them too."

Daín sounded aggravated and Thorin looked at him. He had not seen his cousin in years, but he looked the same; a wild, black beard, perhaps a little more grey than before; sharp eyes with laughing lines around them even though the hour was grim. His famous axe – the one he had slayed Azog the Defiler with many years ago in a different battle – hung proudly over his back, gleamed sharp and dangerous in the dim light of the very small fire in the middle of the tent. Daín continued and Thorin watched him silently:

"I offered some of my men to aid in the pursuing and I believe Dwalin went with them. The Elf Prince led the group…."

"The King", interrupted Balin as he entered the tent, shaking some snowflakes out of his equally white hair and beard. He bowed to the other two Dwarves. "King Thranduil's in charge of the search party now. Ori just told me. Apparently, he was not pleased with the lack of outposts standing guard around camp."

"Blaming us, no doubt", said Thorin bitterly and adjusted his position on the provisional bed. "I suppose he suggested that he would handle everything better by himself?"

Balin shook his head and gave Thorin a reprimanding look. He seemed tired of it all. Daín's lips twitched, but he did neither agree nor disagree. Thorin leaned back against the pillows, running a hand carefully over his face.

"Anything else?" He peered at the other two with brilliant blue eyes that showed concern. "What about my nephews?"

Balin shook his head sadly and Daín looked uncomfortable.

"Fíli's still the same", Balin informed him in a rueful voice accompanied by a heavy sigh. "Still unconscious. Kíli has been awake for some time now, though he is still in pain. Óin's tending to him now." Balin smiled sadly. "When he's not trying to show his pain, he's constantly asking for Fíli's or your condition. Stubborn lad he is."

"Runs in the family", said Daín and the three of them shared smiles of memories, both bitter and sweet ones.

Thorin remembered another young lad – younger than Kíli – who had determinedly put on a silver helmet over auburn hair. He had grabbed a sword that looked too big for him and had marched right out into battle. Frerin had been stubborn as well. Even with his armor smashed into his chest, puncturing his lungs, Thorin's little brother had been reluctant to die. But in the end he did. Death was inevitable, which made Thorin wonder when his time would come.

The smiled had vanished from Daín and Balin's faces. Thorin himself was frowning, breathing heavily.

"What will we do about the guarding?" he asked. "Do we have enough men to spare to guard the camp?"

"It's a large camp", mused Balin and stroke his long, white beard. "Many are wounded or needed to do other things."

"I say we can manage", was Daín's opinion. His dark eyes were hard. "I can spare some of my remaining warriors and if the Elvenking can do so as well, it should not be a too difficult task."

"What of Lord Bard's people then?"

"They can continue with what they are doing; healing and mending and such. The skills of Men are mediocre in a fight as it is and their senses not as sharp as ours or the Elves."

"I suggest you don't say that to him when you speak to him", said Balin diplomatically and Daín rolled his eyes.

"Do not worry, I won't."

"And what does Thranduil want from us?" continued Thorin and spoke the name with a grimace.

Daín shrugged and Balin looked serious.

"He has been very tight-lipped about it all", admitted Balin and he did not look happy by the fact.

"I have been sitting in various meetings with him", said Daín, "but I cannot get a true impression of him. Cold and polite, I would say, but there just is something quite unsettling about him." The King of the Iron Hills trailed off, only to blink and say in a cheerier voice: "'Course, he is an Elf so there was never much to be expected in the first place."

Thorin smiled weakly at that, but Balin didn't.

"We need to come to some sort of agreement with the two of them, both Bard and Thranduil", he said. "And that quick. We cannot risk this opportunity of a long-lasting alliance to slip through our fingers."

Thorin knew that. He was in an enough state of mind to know when things might fall apart. He felt as if he might do so himself. But with his limited knowledge of the camp and its current inhabitants, he felt at loss at what to do. He hated that.

"What do you suggest we do?" he asked and coughed when his throat felt dry and itchy. It made tears form in his eyes and he stubbornly blinked them away. "If we don't know what the Elf wants, what can we offer him?"

"I would not say that he is the one we need to worry about. What about the gold to Bard?" asked Daín once more. "He is getting impatient. The temper of Men has always been short."

"It needs to be sorted and valued before sharing", Thorin managed to say before he broke out into a new coughing fit. His lungs felt as if they might burst.

"I'll set Glóin and Nori on it immediately, eh?" suggested Balin and watched Thorin worriedly, looking as if he wanted to reach out a reassuring arm, but was unsure if it would be good.

Thorin nodded. Glóin had helped financing the Quest to begin with and there was no other Thorin would trust more than his hot-tempered cousin to start set things right with his grandfather's old treasure. Nori had gone from thief to a highly respected Dwarf, whose loyalty Thorin greatly valued. While Glóin was had the experience of dealing with numbers, a head filled with numbers, Nori had the knowledge of different gems from his shady business around every other Dwarven settlement.

"I could arrange so a couple of my most trusted Dwarrows could accompany them", offered Daín and his eyes gleamed for a moment. "There must be many riches to attend to."

A dark feeling crept up on Thorin's painfully pounding heart. In the back of his mind a voice was screaming 'mine, mine!' and it wouldn't go away even when he tried to ignore it. He squinted at Daín, wondering why he made that offer. Could the thought of gold and riches beyond imagination also be on his mind? Did Daín want it all to himself? As he started to cough again, he tried to get rid of all such thoughts and suspicion.

"Fine", he said through gritted teeth and bent forwards, a firm grip around his midriff.

"Thorin?"

Balin sounded frightened and Thorin realized that there were stains of blood on his sheets and he could taste iron in his mouth. He coughed again and drops of red flew out of his mouth.

"Thorin!"

Balin was at his side in an instant. Thorin coughed again, shivering as the air seemed to have gotten colder. He was dimly aware of Daín leaving the tent calling for a healer. Balin muttered soothing words of nonsense and Thorin felt badly for causing his old friend more wrinkles, more worries. The Dwarf King tried to speak, but his words choked on blood.

Thorin wondered if he was going to die.

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><p><strong>So, that was Thorin. Any thoughts?<strong>

**Next chapter should be up in a week or so. **

**Thanks for reading! **


	8. Day 2 - Gandalf

**Chapter 8, everyone! **

**A big 'thank you' to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! I really appreciate your support! **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: Day 2 – Gandalf<strong>

Gandalf was worried.

He had been running around the whole morning and tried to get a clear picture of the Goblin attack that had occurred in the early hours. The Wizard had heard many different tales of it already – because news spread like wildfire – but he had not yet come across someone who knew the truth. Gandalf had warned the three leaders of that something like this could happen. Goblins were nasty creatures, but clever in a cruel way. It had been shown when they had attacked during the morning and managed to avoid the Elven guards Thranduil had placed around camp.

He leaned on his staff as he hurried towards the place where he had heard the three Kings would have a short meeting. He felt annoyed that they had not called for him. Without his warning, they would have fought each other and been slaughter by the Wargs and Goblins. A Wizard's work was never done.

The Hobbit was still missing and that was indeed an evidence of that Gandalf had a lot to do. It bothered him greatly that no one had spotted the short, curly-haired man and he was starting to fear the worst. He was not alone in this; the Company of Thorin Oakenshield was also upset and had gone looking for Bilbo on their own, but without any luck. It seemed to have thinned out as the hours passed.

He heard Daín's booming voice before he had glimpsed him in person and he followed it, leading him to the ones he had wanted to meet. They were standing at a safe distance from one another; Daín red in the face, Thranduil with a haughty expression and Bard frowning, looking grim. Around them was a group of Men, Elves and Dwarves. Gandalf managed to spot several familiar faces. He sighed and increased the speed of his steps.

"What are you three arguing about?" he demanded to know, barging in without waiting on acknowledgement. He was tired and far too annoyed to care. "And what about the Goblin attack? I advised you on keeping a close guard in the outskirts of camp."

"We did, Tharkûn", said Daín gruffly, turning his dark eyes towards the taller man. "But we had not expected the Goblin-scum to attack while it was sunny."

"They do not play fair", said Gandalf and fixed the Elvenking with a stare, bushy eyebrows set in a frown. "And where were your warriors when this incident took place?"

"On duty elsewhere, patrolling", replied Thranduil icily. "We foolishly thought that the Dwarves could handle standing guard on their own for a mere moment."

All that was spoken in a strong, cold voice like that of the winds of winter. Gandalf repressed a sigh and the feeling of wanting to rub his temples like Bard was doing. Not that he would have been able to, with one arm in a sling. At the fair Elvenking's obvious blame, Daín drew himself to his fullest height. He glared, eyes flashing, and he made quite the impressive figure where he stood.

"Careful now", he said in a dangerously polite voice. "At least my men fought. Yours cannot even claim that honor."

"What honor is there in losing?"

"Gentlemen", said Bard before a full-blown argument could start and Gandalf admired the Man's calm. "Please. We have more important things to discuss than to quibble."

It appeared that none of the other two had remembered that they had an audience. They looked around and with rap words, Thranduil ordered his Elves to return to whatever they had been doing before and Daín spoke to his men in their ancient language, while Bard – looking almost apologetic – asked the people of Laketown to give them some privacy. Gandalf watched the different shows of power with mild interest.

When the four of them were relatively alone, Gandalf impatiently tapped his staff and got his long-awaited explanation. There were a couple of wounded Men and Dwarves, adding to the already enormous number, and three dead. Thranduil told about how he had led a group of Elves and Dwarves up the Mountain and killed the Goblins who had managed to escape.

"They did not tell us much", he admitted. "But I suspect there are a few survivors, though the Wargs have retreated."

"How did you get them to speak?" asked Bard wearily, though he looked as if he already knew the answer.

The Elvenking smiled, a cold smile with his eyes flashing in a slightly dangerous way that spoke of that the Wood Elves were wilder than their kin.

"I have my ways."

"Did they scream?" wondered Daín, a slight note of bloodlust in his voice. At Thranduil's nod he smiled with satisfaction. "Good."

"Anything else?" asked Gandalf who did not find the talk of violence to be a good one. "You need to trust each other and ask for help and advice. Otherwise an alliance will be useless."

The other three were silent; Daín looked shrewd, Thranduil haughty and Bard tired. They were an odd group.

"I'll see to my men now", said Bard and broke the silence. He turned to Daín. "Then I would very much like to discuss our promised payment."

"I have told you that I have no power over what to do with the gold in Erebor as long as the rightful King still lives."

"How is Thorin faring?" asked Gandalf in a concerned voice.

Daín sighed grimly and looked tired behind his wild beard.

"It did not look all too good when I left him", the Dwarf leader admitted, "but he is strong, my cousin is, and stubborn. He if anyone would make it through."

Gandalf hummed non-committedly. He knew of Thorin Oakenshield's stubbornness after having travelled across half the world with him. The turn of subject caused the tension to thicken and the mood became tense.

"I wish for him a swift recovery", said Bard politely, though he did not look overjoyed, and bowed towards Daín. "But I must see to the burial of my people now."

Without waiting to be excused – Gandalf was pleased to see that the Man didn't cower much around the other two Kings any longer – Bard took his leave. Daín excused himself not long after that, but not before promising that he would look more into the question about the gold so that they could move forwards in their contract of alliance. Gandalf had a feeling he would do it gladly. That left Gandalf with only Thranduil for company, whom he was not particularly keen to talk with at the moment.

"What now?" he huffed and the Elvenking looked a bit taken a back at his annoyed tone.

Before the fair-haired man could utter a sound, a booming voice being carried with the wind sounded and shook them all to their core:

"Gandalf the Grey!"

Gandalf's head snapped to the side as Beorn came striding towards them, taller than everybody else and savage-looking. The sight made the Wizard relax and Thranduil took a cautious step back. Beorn seemed ignorant of the stares he attracted, but walked on as if he had not a care in the world.

"Master Beorn", greeted Gandalf pleasantly with the shadow of a smile. "How good of you to find me."

"One of your Dwarves told me you wanted to see me", said Beorn after giving the Elvenking a brief look. "I had nothing better to do." Then he frowned as his dark eyes scanned Gandalf's face.

"Why so sad?" wondered the large, hairy man and looked curious. "I can smell it on you, but I don't see why. The battle's won and the Goblins are dead, a big part of their army. They will be weak a long time forward."

Of course the Skin-changer was pleased at the mangled bodies of Goblins rotting away. Beorn despised Goblins and he had helped killed a few, even Bolg, son of the legendary Azog. He was a fierce man with a gentle heart beneath the layers of wildness.

"I cannot find our esteemed Mr Baggins", Gandalf confessed and saying it out loud made it more real.

"The little bunny?" Beorn frowned. "That is not good."

"No", agreed Gandalf with a sigh. "It is not. Nothing have been spotted of him, neither hide nor hair. It worries me."

Beorn stretched, flexing his muscles and gave Gandalf an encouraging grin, a wild gleam in his eyes that betrayed that he was not entirely of the race of Men. He patted the Wizard on the shoulder with a strong, big hand that had a gentleness to it as if not to hurt the old man. Gandalf appreciated it, because his arm was still feeling a bit odd and sore.

"Do not worry", said Beorn. "I will go searching for the little bunny. I do not like small, innocent beings in danger."

Gandalf smiled gratefully, but the knot in his stomach did not completely vanish.

"Thank you."

Beorn waved away his thanks as if it was nothing.

"Let the others quarrel, but I will try to do something useful."

With that, he was off. He ran with an astonishing speed, more brutal and raw than the Elves and he attracted quite the stares from people passing by. Gandalf hoped that the Skin-changer would succeed were others had not.

Thranduil had been quiet during his talk with Beorn, but Gandalf doubted that anything had gotten unnoticed from the King's sharp eyes and good hearing.

"I did not know that you were so worried about the Halfling."

The Elvenking sounded a bit surprised.

"Oh, but I am", replied Gandalf gravely and stared the slightly taller man in the eye. "He is one of my many worries."

He did not receive an answer to that.

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><p><strong>So, that was Gandalf. Any thoughts?<strong>

**I've decided to update this story on Sundays, so next chapter should be up in a week's time. **

**Thanks for reading & an early "Merry Christmas" (or whatever holiday you're celebrating) to you all! :) **


	9. Day 2 - Tauriel

**Chapter 9, everyone! **

**I hope everyone's have had a nice Christmas/holiday! **

**Thanks to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! I really appreciate all your support and I'm glad people are enjoying the story :)**

**I do not own any characters (except the occasional OC) or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9: Day 2 – Tauriel <strong>

Tauriel was scared.

It did not resemble the slight fear before a battle, a fear that went away as soon as she had fired her first arrow or drawn her thin blades, but something else, something that cut deep into her very soul. She was about to see the wounded and that sent shivers down her spine. It was a strange, dark feeling one felt when it was difficult to say if a life could be saved. Tauriel knew that many of the wounded – who lay in pain, gasping for breath – would not live.

She drew a final breath and was on her way to enter the tent, when the flaps were cast aside and revealed Merenwen and a haggard-looking Dwarf.

Merenwen spared her a brief glance, but did not stop her walk. Tauriel hurried out of the way for the Court Healer and her Dwarven companion.

"Tauriel, you'll come with us."

The old Elf's voice did not give the impression that it was up for discussion. Tauriel nodded and easily fell into step with her, though the Dwarf had to take a couple of more steps to match the Elves' strides.

"You have to understand", the Dwarf said to Merenwen. "It is a thin line between the living and the dead. He needs your help."

"We are all equal to death and life", answered Merenwen stonily, but she did not lessen her speed.

"Yes, yes", hurried the Dwarf to say and Tauriel wondered what all this what about. "But this could change a great deal. Please, Mistress Elf."

Tauriel could not recall the last time a Dwarf had begged an Elf for help so pleadingly as the Dwarf now did. The short man looked tired; brown eyes sad, dark circles under his eyes, making his face look thinner, and his brown hair and beard did not appear to have been taken care of. He was familiar and Tauriel faintly remembered that he had been one of the Dwarves that they had held prisoner.

She followed them as they hurried between tents. The atmosphere was grim, but some of the people had gotten a new gleam to their eyes and color to their cheeks after they had gotten food in their bellies. The news had spread that more was to come from both the Iron Hills and Mirkwood.

The Dwarf led them to one of the tents where healers were running in and out, the flaps of the tent never being still. Inside, it reeked of sickness – that sour, foul stench of something being rotten. Tauriel fought to keep the slight grimace off her face, but Merenwen entered the tent with her head held high, looking more grim than some of the soldiers marching into battle. Taking a deep breath and preparing herself, Tauriel followed the older Elf and the young Dwarf.

The tent was full of wounded. It was mostly Dwarves, but a few Men could be seen lying onto hastily made beds. Tauriel saw none of her own kin there.

Merenwen was immediately shown to the bed of a Dwarf surrounded by three healers with concerned expressions upon faces mostly hidden by impressive beards or moustaches. They parted reluctantly as the tall woman approached and continued to watch her examining the Dwarf with careful eyes. Tauriel looked over Merenwen's shoulder, feeling a rising spark of curiosity despite her better judgment.

The Dwarf was young, with noble features in an ashen-like face. His eyes were closed. Around his head was a bandage stained with red. It covered a large part of his forehead and blond hair, which Tauriel thought to be uneven.

Someone must've cut it to better treat his head wound. Though Tauriel was not knowledgeable in the ways and customs of Dwarves, she knew it was improper to cut off hair or beard, but an exception had obviously been made so that he would survive instead. But taking in the Dwarf's still form, she realized that there was not much the healers could do for him. Merenwen came to the same conclusion.

"He is dead", she said briskly, letting go of the Dwarf's wrist after trying to feel his pulse. "You all know it as well as I do."

The Dwarven healers looked pained, grim and some closed their eyes.

"Yes", muttered one of them, peering up at Merenwen. "But we thought that you might have known something to do, anything…."

Merenwen's expression softened.

"I do not possess such power to retrieve the dead. None of my kin do, though there are some far more skilled than I."

Tauriel kept silent, though she doubted that there was anyone more skilled than Merenwen when it came to healing except maybe the Lord of Imladris. The Dwarves did not pay her any attention, the healers looking resolute and the Dwarf that had brought Merenwen seemed to have had all the air punched out from him. He stumbled on the spot and buried his face his mitten-clad hands.

"Oh, Mahal!" he exclaimed in a shaky voice.

Merenwen patted him on the back and Tauriel could only stare, feeling sad and uncomfortable. One of the Dwarven healers told the grieving Dwarf to spread the word. The words were those of doom. The young, brown-haired Dwarf nodded, but not before adding with a fervently tone:

"And whatever you do, do not tell his brother! It will not help at all…."

He trailed off and cast one last glance at the dead Dwarf before hurrying out of the tent.

"It's a sad day for the line of Durin", offered Merenwen as comfort and the healers nodded.

"Aye, but it was a noble death. Fíli son of Dís will enter the Halls of our Maker to a warm welcome."

Durin. Tauriel recognized the name, but could not place it. Dwarven history was not her strong forte.

At Merenwen's request, Tauriel attended the wounded. Some of them were asleep or out cold, while others were delirious and spoke names of loved ones they would perhaps never see again. Tauriel's heart went out with them all. Those who were awake and not in the delirious state of pain thanked her quietly as she changed their bandages or gave them water to drink. Even the wounded Dwarves put aside their pride and prejudices to speak a few kind words. Tauriel wished she could do more.

A couple of beds from the blond Dwarf – Fíli she reminded herself – laid yet another Dwarf, also young and shaking in feverish attacks. Tauriel fixed his blanket and her eyes went to the bowl of water at the bedside table. She dipped a cloth into it, prepared to wash his face. He radiated heat and a sheen of sweat graced his brows. She tried to move carefully as not to wake him, but he slept worriedly and he slowly opened one brown eye, followed by the other and blinked.

"What's going on?" he wondered breathlessly, a heavy touch of sleep in his voice. He blinked again and his sweaty face showed surprise. "You're an Elf", he said in amazement and Tauriel allowed herself a small smile.

"I am." She sat down on the stool that had been pushed to the side and brought the wet cloth to his forehead. He was burning under her touch. "My name is Tauriel."

"Tauriel", he repeated and it sounded odd coming from his lips. "I'm Kíli. At your service, though it seems to be the other way around right now." He smiled a little, but he was tense and Tauriel did not doubt that he was in pain, otherwise he would not be lying in a tent for the ill and wounded.

Kíli. Fíli and Kíli. Their names rhymed and Tauriel let her eyes wander towards Fíli's direction. The healers were drawing a sheet over him, shielding him from the world of those who were still living. Then she looked at Kíli. He had followed her gaze, though he could not see far, and his face showed worry.

"How is my brother doing?" he asked her urgently, a slight panicked look in his eyes. "And my uncle?"

"Your brother's in no pain anymore", said Tauriel soothingly and it was true.

Kíli smiled in relief and Tauriel felt a pang of sorrow and of guilt, but the Dwarf bringing Merenwen had told them not to tell him after all. But Tauriel wondered if it wasn't crueler to keep him in the dark.

She continued wetting his face. He was burning and his eyelids fluttered as he sighed in content.

"I thought I would die seeing the world fall apart, my kin being slain and everything being a haze of blood and smoke. Now instead, I'll enter the Halls of my Fathers with something pretty in mind."

He smiled a crooked grin before his face was clouded with pain. Tauriel held his hand tightly, tried to share some of her strength with him. Kíli's rough hand squeezed hers before he closed his eyes, his breathing becoming hitched. Two healers approached, giving Tauriel tired and calculating looks, as one of them removed the cover from Kíli's body. A rotten smell assaulted Tauriel's nose and her calm façade slipped to show a grimace. The Dwarf was bandaged around his middle, but it was stained red, black and even yellow.

"Could you be so kind to move?" asked one of the healers, the one that was not holding the cover and was there with new bandages.

Tauriel stepped back, her body moving on its own accord. Her eyes were fixed on Kíli, who thrashed on the bed, moaning in pain. She could not recall having seen such a pitiful sight before. Merenwen moved to pass her, her pale face a mask of concentration.

"Tauriel, could you fetch healer Aenor? His services will be needed."

Tauriel hurried out of the tent to obey Merenwen's wishes, though she feared that it was too late. Her hand was still warm from when Kíli had held it, but since she had let go, everything around her had become more prominent; the smells, the sounds and the faces of those walking by. Her head was spinning with thoughts of life and death, of greed and injustice.

"Tauriel!"

She stopped and automatically turned her head in the direction of her name. She straightened up as Legolas made his way towards her, bow strapped to his back and looking as if he had not gotten a moment of rest. Tauriel bowed her head to him, a habit that would never go away. Legolas accepted it with a nod, but there was worry in his eyes. He clasped her arm in a firm, supportive grip, reminding her that he was still there. She looked at him, feeling small and insignificant. It reminded her of when they were younger, of how she had looked up to him, wanted to be like him, because he had all the answers and could make everything right. What a fool she had been, but when looking at the older Elf now – her prince, her mentor and even her friend – she couldn't help but ask, a last hope of that he will know what to do to make everything fine again:

"Why is life such a fragile thing?"

She sounded weak to her own ears and she averted her eyes, shame coloring her cheeks. Legolas did not let her go and tilted her chin so that she would see his face when he answered. His expression was serious, so grave that she felt as if he had aged lifetimes and taken her with him. The Prince's voice was soft when he answered, so soft that the sound alone almost brought furious tears to her green eyes.

"So one shall be careful with it and live it well."

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><p><strong>So, that was Tauriel. Any thoughts? <strong>

**Next time I'll update, it will be 2015. Time surely flies! **

**Thanks for reading! **


	10. Day 2 - Bard

**Chapter 10, everyone! **

**Happy New Year to you all! **

**As usual, a big 'thank you' to all readers, followers, favourites and reveiwers. Your support makes it twice as fun to write this! **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: Day 2 – Bard<strong>

Bard was not the first to hear the news of Thorin Oakenshield's nephews' deaths.

It had started as whispers, fickle words trading bearer. Then, as the afternoon sun slowly faded, it spread across the whole camp to Dwarves, Men and Elves alike. The Dwarves were shouting in anger, their hammers hitting steel with a thunderous force. When night had truly fallen, the camp echoed with the deep voices of the Dwarves, a lament so beautifully harmonized that it left even the Elves slightly speechless.

Bard had not been personally informed about the princes' passing. He had heard it in passing by people gossiping. It had made him pause, but he could not recall the princes' faces. His expression had turned grim, but not really for the sake of the dead Dwarf princes. No, too many lied dead already for him to weep over, but he could sympathize with the living. He could not think of what he would have done should he have lost any of his children to the dragon's wrath or to the battle that took place not long after. Despite everything Thorin Oakenshield had done, the misery he had caused, Bard felt a pang of sympathy for him living to see his heirs pass away while he still lived, though for how much longer was uncertain.

It did not snow this evening, but the darkness still fell before the late hours. Bard had returned from another short meeting with Thranduil and Gandalf. Daín had not been present. Bard could figure out the reason to that by himself, though Gandalf kindly – if not a little bit patronizing – explained that he was with his kin at the moment. Bard understood that and his absent meant that the meeting turned short as there was no one there to trade insults with the Elvenking. Despite the Dwarves heartfelt lament, Bard felt in a higher spirit when he left the meeting. More food had arrived and herbs for healing with the Elves and there had been a report from the Eagles that more supplies would come in a day's time from the Iron Hills.

When Bard arrived at his part of camp, he found most of the inhabitants of Laketown sitting around a large fire they had built. It radiated heat and even though it brought up memories of their town being laid to ruins, it was welcoming all the same.

Bard spotted his children there. Tilda was sitting nestled next to Sigrid, resting her head on her sister's shoulder while Bain was sitting a couple of seats away, speaking in a low voice to some of the other young boys that had survived both Smaug's attack and the battle. It warmed Bard's heart to see them there alive and together, despite their faces being pale and eyes tired. Another part of his heart ached for those who could not say the same. Many families had been torn apart from the burning of Laketown and as the Dwarves' singing expressed, it was not only Men who had lost people they cared about.

When the people noticed Bard they fell silent for a moment until he had sat down next to his daughters. He greeted them all with a slight smile and after that the conversations started again, though they were quiet and hushed as if not to disturb the Dwarves' singing.

"Da!" Tilda greeted him and hugged him, tearing herself away from her sister's side.

Bard hugged her back, feeling a wave of calmness wash over him.

"Have you eaten?" he asked, stroking Tilda's hair, but directing the question to his eldest.

Sigrid nodded, her lips twisting in to a smile that took away some of the tiredness in her eyes.

"Yes, we have", she assured him. "Lotta made sure that we got our share."

Bard located the sturdy old woman sitting on the other side of the fire and nodded his thanks. The old lady nodded back. She had been a friend to Bard's late wife's parents and though they had not spoken often after Saga's death, she had always been within reach to keep an eye on his children should she deemed it necessary.

"Da, is it true that the Dwarf princes are dead?" asked Tilda sleepily and peered up at him.

The quiet conversations around the large fire nearly died out completely at Tilda's question and Bard felt many eyes rest upon him as they all waited for him to confirm what they thought they knew or deny it. Bard sighed and removed a couple of curls that were dangling in front of his youngest daughter's eyes.

"Yes", he said in a soft voice. "It is true. That's why they are singing now. They are grieving."

"It's sad", mumbled Tilda and closed her eyes.

She was right. The song they were singing in rich, deep voices that blended perfectly together with the night, spoke of a sadness that in Westron would be quite difficult to convey with such simplicity, but meaning, as the Dwarves' song. It truly was a sad thing to hear where the Men of Laketown were sitting and staring into the burning fire.

They soon started to talk again in voices that sounded as soft as the sparkling flames of the fire. Bard spoke with his eldest as his youngest seemed to be drifting off to sleep. Once or twice, the calm atmosphere was disturbed by some standing up and getting more wood to fuel the fire. Just when Bard decided that it was perhaps best to get his children in bed and to sleep, one of the men asked him what would happen next. Suddenly all the attention was on him, reminding the bowman that he was their leader now.

"I would like to rebuild Dale", Bard told them, poking around the fire with a thin stick. "It would be the greatest marketplace in the North, just as it was in my ancestors' days."

"Aye", hummed many of his companions. "That would be a sight to behold."

"But what of Laketown?" asked an old woman with ashen eyes.

Bard smiled a crooked smile and sighed softly. He raised his chin proudly and as the flames flickered, casting warm shadows upon his face, it could easily been seen that he came from a noble line.

"Laketown would once again become the center of all trade in the East", he assured the crowd and he spoke in a strong voice while his eyes burned with dreams. "Our people would live in peace and prosper. The Dwarves would be our trading partners and the Elves our buyers. Even Gondor would want to have our goods. We would once again be put on the map and all in Middle Earth would know us."

Silence fell amongst the Men at Bard's words. Many were looking completely captured by the vision he painted. His son was one of them and Bain's eyes shone admiringly and proudly as they rested upon his father. Others had faraway looks in their eyes. Then there were some whose faces looked hardened by battle, age and hardship and not dared to believe in a dream like that.

"It sounds good and all that", said one of the former Master of Laketown's counselors, though his tone was most unhappy. "But how will you manage that, hm? Our supplies are nothing but scraps given to us by those with power and though all the talk of an alliance, I see none formed."

"Help will come, Alfrid", said Bard, locking eyes with the man in a defiant staring contest. "Tomorrow, more food and supplies will come from the Iron Hills. We are not on our own."

Once again the people broke out into muttering and many faces broke out into relieved smiles. Alfrid did not look convinced.

"What of the gold that was promised us?" he wondered, looking around the fire to try and gain some support. "We cannot rebuild our homes without being able to pay for what we need. The Elves did not help when Dale fell all those years ago and neither did the Dwarves. Instead, it was Laketown that aided the Men of Dale. Who says that the Elves and Dwarves goodwill will last this time?"

He paused and let his words sink in. Bard noticed that doubt clouded the vision of some of the gathered. Alfrid seemed to notice it as well. He nodded importantly and continued in an oily voice:

"What will we do then, Bard? Without an alliance to ensure our safety and without gold to pay, we will be nothing. From what I can see, you do not seem to have the situation under control…."

"That's a lie!" shouted Bain and his voice was like a crack of a whip through the calm night. He got to his feet. "My father has done more for our people than anybody else. He slayed the dragon, led us through the wild and through battle. Now, he does his best, arguing with leaders of fairer and tougher folk just so that we shall have a place to stay during the winter, a chance to survive."

Bard felt his heart swell with affection for his son who, despite all the hardship that had happened to them, believed Bard to be able to fix everything. He sent his son a small smile and gestured for him to sit down. With a bit of a sheepish smile of his own, Bain did as his father asked.

"Yes", said Alfrid with a sneer. "Attending meetings…. Tell me, what of the King under the Mountain? He promised us the gold and he started all this. What does he say?"

"The King under the Mountain is ill and wounded", said Bard sharply. "On top of that, he has just lost his heirs, his pride and joy. He is in no state of enduring meetings and councils."

"Why do they not just end his misery and let that fellow from the Iron Hills become King of it all?" wondered Alfrid.

He was met with a lot of stares, but no one disagreed. The Dwarves' song had ended, almost as if they had heard the words Alfrid spoke. The night was again silent. Bard blinked and looked sharply at Alfrid, a biting retort on the tip of his tongue and by the looks of it, he was not alone. The hunched, dark-haired man looked around at his companions, amazement spreading across his face.

"Oh, don't say you have not thought of it as well?"

Bard reprimanded him for speaking such words when they were in a camp surrounded by Dwarves and at more or less at their mercy. Yet the Dragonslayer could not deny the truth of the other man's words. There was a part in the darker and more bitter parts of his mind that had wondered how it would be if Thorin Oakenshield would come to meet the same fate as his nephews.

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><p><strong>So, that was Bard. Any thoughts? <strong>

**Next, we'll be entering the third and last day...**

**Thanks for reading! :) **


	11. Day 3 - Gandalf

**Chapter 11, everyone! **

**One day late with the update, but I hope the chapter will be worth the slight wait. **

**Thanks to all readers, followers, favourites and reviewers! I really appreciate all of your support! **

**I do not own any characters or places; J.R.R Tolkien or Peter Jackson and Co do. **

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: Day 3 – Gandalf<strong>

"Mister Gandalf! Mister Gandalf!"

Gandalf awoke with a start at Dori's slightly hysterical voice. He muttered a curse at his arm, which was still bandaged and could ache at any moment. The Wizard could not remember having slept, but in his simple bed he awoke. Quickly, he was on his feet and wrapped his silver scarf around his neck and then grabbed his staff and hurried out of the tent.

Dori was outside. He looked healthy apart from a few bruises, but his face was set in an expression of grief and Gandalf feared the worst.

"What is it, Master Dwarf? Speak quickly!"

"It's Thorin", explained Dori in a shaky voice. "He is dying."

Gandalf blinked. Then he said slowly, more to himself than to Dori:

"So he will die."

It saddened him, but he was surprised that he had hold out as long as he had. He had gotten some nasty wounds from the battle when he was attacked by a group of Goblins not even his nephews and friends could protect him from.

He hurried towards Thorin's tent as quickly as his old legs let him. Dori was at his side, the silver-haired Dwarf running to keep up with him. Many hurried out of their way as Gandalf approached like a stormy cloud to fall down on them all. Outside Thorin's tent stood many of his Company, all looking ashen-faced and talking to each other in voices that they tried to keep hushed but rose with worry and anxiety. They all looked to Gandalf as he and Dori arrived. Hope entered many of their eyes, but Gandalf doubted that he could prove himself worthy of it. He barely managed a smile for them, though he knew that was a small comfort for these Dwarves who had followed Thorin Oakenshield through many perils and a few of them had followed him all their lives.

"How is he?" asked Gandalf, directing the question to whoever had the answer.

It was Óin who answered, pushing away the flaps of the tent and looking grim.

"He's in there", said the healer as if Gandalf did not already know that. "It is critical."

Gandalf let out a long sigh that was drowned by the upset talking of the Company. Óin stepped aside to answer their questions and Gandalf entered the tent. It had changed little since he had been there before, though Thorin looked worse than he had then. His face was sweaty, his eyes feverish and his strong jaw firmly set.

"All hail Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór", offered Gandalf as a greeting as he stepped inside and let the cloth fall from his hand to hide them from the outer world.

Thorin blinked and nodded to him.

"Gandalf."

He indicated with another nod that Gandalf should sit down in the chair that stood next to the bed. It looked like a chair used to have occupants.

"How are you faring, Thorin?" asked Gandalf gravely, his old eyes looking the Dwarf over.

It was a silly question – Gandalf could see that he did not look well – but it was a question needed to be asked. Thorin grunted, smiling crookedly.

"Óin says that it does not look too good", he admitted. He gingerly put a hand to his midriff. "Some of the wounds opened during the night and I…. did not call for the healers."

At that confession, Gandalf frowned, but he did not speak of it, for he guessed that the King had had a lot on his mind during the night and might even feel that he deserved the pain. Gandalf did not doubt that the news of his nephews' deaths had struck him hard and painful, perhaps more painful than his wounds. Gandalf stroked his moustache as he came to think of something else.

"What do the Elven healers say?" he wanted to know.

Thorin let out a snort.

"I rather die than let one of them look me over", he said and swallowed thickly. "What respect would my people have for me, their King, if I had to rely on Elven herbs and tricks to grow stronger and to rule? No…. no Elves…."

"Oh, the stubbornness of Dwarves!" exclaimed Gandalf and stomped his foot in his annoyance and sorrow. "And what do you expect me to do, hm? Would my tricks, as you put it, be acceptable?"

"No", said Thorin and squinted up at Gandalf through narrow eyes. He smiled, though it looked to cause him pain. "I did not send for you. At least not so you would heal me."

Gandalf frowned, his bushy brows appearing to be one under the brim of his hat. He looked around the tent and his eyes found Dwalin near the entrance of the tent, always being Thorin's shadow. Gandalf realized how desperate the Dwarf must be if he was prepared to lay aside his suspicion of magic to call for help to save his King. Dwalin's jaw was set and his muscular arms crossed.

"I will not let you die on my watch", he said through clenched teeth and glared at Thorin as if it would keep him alive.

Thorin laughed at that, but it was a raspy sound that sounded ominous to Gandalf's ears. He had heard laughs like that before. It was the laugh of a dead man, a man knowing that he would die.

"Then why do you want me here?" asked Gandalf tiredly and did not bother with hiding the sadness in his eyes.

"I wanted to thank you", said Thorin and he struggled to find a position that would allow him to be more at eyelevel with the Wizard.

Gandalf's eyebrow jumped to his hairline in surprise.

"Thank me?" he repeated slowly.

Thorin nodded while Dwalin silently stood and watched.

"Yes. I wanted to thank you, Gandalf, for giving me this opportunity, for giving me a chance to reclaim Erebor." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Though heavy losses, I am glad that I got to live long enough to see the Mountain free from the dragon."

Gandalf wondered if the King thought of his nephews and of the hundreds of bodies that had fallen at the slopes of the Mountain. Thorin's eyes shone fervently and there was gratitude in the deep, blue depths. It was not something Gandalf had necessarily seen before in the battered Dwarf's eyes. He nodded somberly, though he had never meant for the Quest to turn out as it did.

"There is no need to thank me", said Gandalf, though he could not help but feel a small pang of satisfaction at the otherwise so proud Dwarf's words. "You would have marched upon the Mountain sooner or later, with or without my help."

"Perhaps."

There was a moment of silence as Thorin closed his eyes and grimaced in pain. Then he seemed to be remembering something and his face was clouded with a different sort of pain now.

"The burglar", Thorin said urgently and opened his eyes enough so that Gandalf could glimpse the blue in them. "I need to speak with him before I…. Could you send for him?"

Even though it pained Gandalf to say, he explained to Thorin that Bilbo Baggins had not been seen since the battle. Beorn had searched long into the night, but he had not been able to find Bilbo either. The Skin-changer had said that he thought he smelled him, but the stench of the dead, of blood and ash was too strong for him to be absolutely sure. It had eased Gandalf's worries but not enough to make him find peace.

When Gandalf told Thorin this, the Dwarf frowned.

"You've lost our burglar?" he asked for confirmation and gave Gandalf an almost reproachful look.

"I have not lost anything", Gandalf bristled. "He seems to have simply disappeared."

Thorin closed his eyes again and let out a rattled breath. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat and he looked to be in pain, though if it was only because of his wounds, Gandalf was unsure.

"Do you think you could find him for me?"

Thorin did not open his eyes when he spoke. If he had, he would have seen Gandalf's thunderous expression; a mixture of anger, grief and guilt. The Wizard stood up and looked down at the Dwarf King.

"I shall find him, Thorin Oakenshield, but not only for your sake."

Thorin hummed, but seemed not to have heard him. Gandalf and Dwalin exchanged a look before Dwalin poked his head out of the tent to call for Óin. Gandalf gave Thorin a last look before leaving the tent and was replaced by a group of healers. He was thinking so hard that it seemed as if his head would burst into flames by the effort. Around him, Dwarves, Men and Elves were buzzing around, carrying supplies and tools around the camp. The Wizard's old eyes took a quick look around and then he hit his staff against the ground, demanding attention.

"Now, listen here!" he called in a loud, thunderous voice filled with urgency. It gained him the full attention of many. "Many of you might not know this, but we have a Hobbit to thank for our victory against the Goblins. Without his actions, an alliance would not have been formed and our losses would have been even worse." Gandalf paused, aware of that nobody was moving, that all had stopped to listen to him speak. "Mr Bilbo Baggins, our brave little Hobbit is missing. He needs to be found!"

Knowing that he had everyone's attention, he described Bilbo to them – short, curly hair and bare feet – and where he last had been spotted. Gandalf had thought long and hard about it and he recalled seeing Bilbo at the Mountain with the Elves just before the battle broke out. He hoped he was still there, but hope seemed to have diminished for them all.

As the people around him eagerly went separate ways to finish their chores or to look for the Hobbit, Gandalf nodded to himself and his grey robes were billowing around him as he stomped away to follow his own orders.

He needed to find Bilbo Baggins.

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><p><strong>So, that was Gandalf! Any thoughts? If you have any questions, I'll be happy trying to answer them!<strong>

***a quick note; I know it can be debatable if Bilbo truly was 'the hero' of the Battle and while I'm not looking for a right or wrong (everyone's allowed their opinions), I believe that Gandalf would be one of them who would've appreciated Bilbo stealing the Arkenstone that helped create an alliance, thus Gandalf's (in this story): "... but we have a Hobbit to thank for our victory against the Goblins."***

**Next chapter should be up on Sunday or earlier next week. **

**Thanks for reading! :) **


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